


Mishaps Of The Bad Kind

by LimitedMorality (pikagioma)



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Are assholes, BAMF Loki (Marvel), BAMF Tony Stark, Canon Divergence - Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Chaptered, Character Bashing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Loki (Marvel) Angst, Loki (Marvel) Has Issues, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Loki (Marvel)-centric, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Not Canon Compliant, Not Steve Rogers Friendly, Odin (Marvel)'s A+ Parenting, Panic Attacks, Post-Iron Man 3, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Tony Stark, References to Norse Religion & Lore, SHIELD, TAKE NO BULLSHIT FROM ODIN, The Author Regrets Everything, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Triggers, Trust Issues, Unreliable Narrator, adding tags as I go, all the hurt, oblivious loki, ugh this is gonna get heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-01-13 08:24:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18465178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikagioma/pseuds/LimitedMorality
Summary: “You there! Hands where I can see them! This is SHIELD, identify yourself!”The male dragged him upright and pushed him towards where more people waited, all equipped with some kind of weapon, dressed identically and sporting unfamiliar and hostile expressions. Together, they carried his limp body to a van, parked not too far from his landing spot. The sun’s heat deformed shapes in the most curious manner, for he would have thought it to be only a smear in the otherwise spotless ambience surrounding him.‘Ah,’ Loki squinted at the skies overhead, ‘I fell on Midgard then.’





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to my first fic!
> 
> this started as a prompt at 2 am, and now i am totally on the verge of typing too much for my own good. this is probably going to take a lot to update, so bear with me? please? also, this is NOT me improvising as things progress because i do not have the slightest idea where to go with any of this. nope. not at all.
> 
> title is a work in progress (suggestions, please?). if you see any errors, do tell me. thank you and enjoy! *yeets into the sun*

_“I love you, my sons.”_

Confusion, sadness, an instinctual amount of rage—all swelled within him as he watched Odin’s light carry into the sun. He had never imagined his death would be of the quiet sort. Maybe he should have perished by some noble warrior’s blade, maybe even his unworthy own, but like this? Like a snuffed-out candle? It all seemed to mock him, all his trials, momentary triumphs, his efforts to be the son he never was, no matter what his late would-be-father said—like it was all for nought.

Then, perhaps a bit overdue, came Thor’s distrust. Of course, he had never taken into account his reaction to his schemings, but then again he was supposed to ‘reign’ for a little while longer. Maybe then he would have had some kind of appropriate response to the same threats he always dished out—as things stood, he only welcomed Hela’s arrival.

The irony of her very presence was very clear to him, maybe due to his own history, but it seemed Odin had had a penchant for relegating his own children where he could not see them. Especially if they threatened him, or his position, in any way.

As he stood and watched the fight—only a light scuffle, in truth—next to Thor, he was already thinking contingency plans, possible ways to ensure the goddess wouldn’t end up on Asgard with them, but they all vanished like smoke to the wind when he saw Mjölnir crumbling to the ground, reduced to pieces single-handedly by their own sister. The mage would have laughed for a while if he could have afforded the time to. Right then, he only had a split second to decide for their own skin.

“Take us _back_!” He roared to the skies.

The light of the Bifrost was one of the few things he welcomed easily, no matter the occasion, even when he had his own pathways to travel where he fancied. Nevertheless, even among the rushing colours and lights, there was no refuge—he turned at the warning shout of the Thunderer, seeing Hela rapidly crossing the small distance between them, a mad grin on her face. Panicked, a knife flew from his hand, only to be ricocheted somehow right in his shoulder, sending him careering off sideways.

The walls of light shattered as he shot right through them, and he never knew they were actually solid, and that beyond them lay nothing but the darkness of the Void. Not for the first time in his life, he fell with nothing to hold on to, only this time, he _screamed_.

After what seemed like eons—did time even matter anymore? Had it ever mattered?—he felt like piercing through the air again. It didn’t do much to soften his landing, wherever that might be, but he felt a little bit surer, steadier, to be touching a solid surface after so much nothing.

A surface that seemed to be… sand? Opening his eyes, he realised he was in the middle of a deserted plain, nothing to be seen anywhere he looked except yellow dunes and the clear sky. He just laid there for now, closing his eyes again, waiting for his energies to come back—and perhaps even someone who saw what occurred. A time passed, and he heard voices disturbing his light slumber.

“You there! Hands where I can see them! This is SHIELD, identify yourself!”

The male dragged him upright and pushed him towards where more people waited, all equipped with some kind of weapon, dressed identically and sporting unfamiliar and hostile expressions. Together, they carried his limp body to a van, parked not too far from his landing spot. The sun’s heat deformed shapes in the most curious manner, for he would have thought it to be only a smear in the otherwise spotless ambience surrounding him.

_‘Ah,’_ Loki squinted at the skies overhead, _‘I fell on Midgard then.’_

 

 

[][][][][][]

 

 

If asked, he would say he ignored how the humans had behaved in the enclosed space with him, having lost consciousness sometime after their departure, to places unknown—but that surely left him little hope as to how he would be treated in the near future, if the frigid welcome had been of any indication. Behind his closed lids he found the swirling depths of the Void, ready to claim him yet again lest he allowed himself even only a second of weakness, _his_ voice a painful reminder of what had once been inside his head, days, _months_ spent at the bitter expense of his waning self. How he wished he could take it all back, just to destroy it again—only this time, the punishment would be well-earned and surely better suffered, if such a thing could possibly be bestowed onto a creature like him, for a _monster_ would withstand pain like he had experienced better than any Æsir, undoubtedly.

Oh, do not mistake his self-deprecation for something that defined him as a whole—he was well aware of all that made him, and he was loathe to think about most of it only when faced with nothing more than his pitiful thoughts about _home_ and _sentiment_.

Loki had never been an affectionate person by nature, displaying touches and gestures only when strictly necessary and shrugging off and away from anyone who dared to approach him in any such way. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t gotten his fair share of touches in his youth—he had lost count of just how many low places he had been to, the pleasures of the flesh an intriguing concept for a young and impressionable mind, and a more stimulating challenge for a more mature and still very curious god who yearned to satisfy even under the protection of beddings and his own wards, hidden from stares but all the more vulnerable for it.

( _“I could have done it, Father! For you!”_ )

No, he was _perfectly_ aware of just who crawled under the feeble illusion the oh-so merciful All-Father had cast over him to keep everyone else from witnessing the truth of his revolting heritage. Hence, should anyone try and pry into his many masks and lies and absolute impassivity regarding his person, for as much as one could hope to care about oneself there was a limit to what could be endured before going numb to any and all misfortunes, if they could even be addressed as such given the way they all seemed to result in him falling from, falling for, _always falling_ , at most he would grant them but one glimpse before shutting them out and possibly render them so they would never see the light of day ever again—and wasn’t that the cruel truth, they who had the opportunity of seeing him open up to them like a flower under the moonlight, shadows creeping from all his jagged edges, were quite possibly the first ones to vanish from his set of variables that made up his whole life, given the chance.

He had learned steadfastly that weaknesses were a thing to exploit, not cherish, and surely not to reveal to anyone.

His most recent failure with yet another member of his pretend-family—a rueful tightening of his lips almost all he would express on the matter—had cemented that with shackles and chains binding him back to, one could argue, where it all started: in the back of a van held prisoner by the very beings he had sworn to rule under his thumb not so long ago. Loki had been a fool for trusting Thor _again_ in the first place, and Odin... He couldn’t even begin to fathom the unbridled, black _rage_  that swirled within him at the mere image that pictured in his mind at that, alimented by dark tendrils of a lingering vengeance nurtured with time and the most _dedicated_ of attention and care. Because to him at the very least, how he came to such a state of frailty of mind was quite clear, although perhaps to anyone else it would seem that his mind was already frail to begin with to sustain such damage.

But no. The worst to him wasn’t being denied the truth at his lowest, wasn’t the deep-seated feeling of betrayal that ghosted over his every waking moment—and sometimes beyond that,—wasn’t the secret they had all kept from him his whole life without even a hint of remorse, his legacy in ruins, himself being unmade and reborn under the guise of a twisted, broken toy to dance for an abomination’s amusement. How he had pleaded for audience, screamed for aid in the face of a bottomless pit of despair, letting go of the edge when it came to a decision of hanging for dear life or just rest, to put an end to the endless disapproval( _“Seiðr? Son, are you ergi? You know very well the royal family cannot parade such behaviour so openly!”_ ) and scathing whispers from all around him ( _“Why are you so different, why can’t you just be better, like your brother?”._ ) It wasn’t being denied to see Frigga—his mother—for the last time, despite knowing that he didn’t deserve it—the woman deserved the best that Valhalla could offer.

It was realising, after all he had perpetrated, schemed, after all the years spent at the side of someone who had never truly cared for him—and how late had he seen that, always the fool—that he had put trust, conviction, hope into someone else, allowing exposure to events that had, inevitably, led to his guaranteed downfall.

Honestly, at this point, he might even welcome execution as the first form of mercy done to him in centuries.

As Loki recovered from his thoughts by the jostling of the ride he was in, he could hear the sound of people talking with conceited voices, murmuring or shushing alternatively with no regards whatsoever that he was right next to them. Luckily, he had no interest in whatever reason they had to move their mouths about. The most he would ever want right now was to sleep, recover his energies, and then... Then, he would think of it when the moment came. He had no will to formulate plans for his future.

Loki gradually became more aware of his surroundings, centuries of training serving him well in that regard—not that it actually changed anything for him, still bound by metal and _spite_. As he opened his eyes, just a crack, he noticed everybody inside the van had stood up, the repetitive, rolling movement of the vehicle having stopped at last. They were talking louder now, impossible to ignore unless he wanted to go back under again, and something in his gut told him to _stay vigilant, they are not done with you yet._

Case in point, in a matter of seconds he was being jostled up and out towards one would assume to be... SHIELD’s headquarters.

Loki just stared numbly at the overall plain building: all steel and glass and white walls, the architecture felt even less threatening than that one flying monstrosity they had put him in the beginning. He figured that, after having to cut their losses in order to salvage money from their previous… accident, _someone_ had recommended a downgrade. Literally. Loki couldn’t say he didn’t agree—if anything, it would make his escape attempt even easier, since they hadn’t taken away his sight and he could… he…

_Cut it out, Laufeyson. You still know yourself better than your foolish, foolish heart does_.

He sagged down with no warning, making the agents that were already carrying him stagger under his full weight, letting out surprised grunts and half smothered curses. The weight of his choices seemed to have increased tenfold now that he was capable of realising exactly what he had done, but ultimately it only served to remind him of one, chilling thing: there was nothing left for him. Hela having surely arrived on Asgard—he was under no illusion that Thor might best her in battle, especially without his beloved hammer—could only bring about its downfall, and even in the case of partial annihilation, his _sister_ would not allow any being like him to set foot on her soil. He was alone, stranded, and with no chance of finding refuge even if he looked for it since the relic he could have used to travel was in the Vault still.

This hopelessness reminded him too much of a rainbow bridge, splintering and collapsing under his own desperate will to become _more_. Where he stood right now, held by the unforgiving stares of hostile creatures while hoisted along to meet his fate, struck the peculiar impression that maybe the Norns would have gone a bit easier on him, had he not opposed his destiny—of second best—so many times. He regretted not having remained on Asgard when he had contacted Laufey instead. 

(He would have still done it. To protect the few he loved and the many he tolerated.)

The trudging didn’t last much longer, thankfully. Shuffling feet stopped dead in their tracks, giving him just a moment of respite before he was lifted from the ground and thrown gracelessly into what he presumed were to be his new quarters for the foreseeable future. Loki stayed on the ground, unmoving, even as his hands and feet were brought together so that large, heavy metal cuffs could be affixed to them by just as heavy chains, the ends connected to a metal ring protruding from the wall. The devices were so clearly not Midgardian, given how they seemed to appreciate all the technology someone else had built for them, that Loki fully anticipated the feeling of _suction_  that one experienced when their magic was extracted from them forcefully. He watched, pain dulling his eyes to a dark emerald shade, as the runes engraved on the restraints glowed a vibrant gold, Odin’s magic coming to mock him from the afterlife. Loki felt a spark of satisfaction lighting deep within him at the thought that the old bastard couldn’t access to Valhalla—it was a small compensation, but a distraction nonetheless from the disheartening feeling of a part of him snuffed out like a dying flame.

Time passed, the door to his cell—clearly he was coherent enough, for now, to determine as much—now closed plunging the room into all-encompassing darkness. Time passed. The walls of the cell must have been soundproof, or very thick indeed, because no matter how much he screamed and punched the concrete pavement, no one seemed to hear him. Then again, they had a very obvious spying device installed in the corner of the room, so they had probably assumed that there was no real threat behind the venomous curses and insult he had been spitting around for hours, or the humans couldn’t be bothered to worry with such a pitiful creature—Loki was just glad that the darkness was probably enough to hide the tears that managed to escape his control.

After quieting down—probably five hours had passed—he received a polite knock on his door, and couldn’t quite keep in an unamused snort.

“Director, I really hope you have not come here to appeal to my humanity. I find myself in scarce supply of pretty much _anything_ as of now—perhaps you might want to come later, when I won’t behave as such a disgraceful _host_ ,” he snarled, hoping to irritate away whoever was on the other side—he guessed the Director because that was how any interrogation technique worked throughout the galaxy: send the biggest fish down first so they hope it won’t come ever again, and hopefully they’ll crack easier when it does.

Loki heard the noise of a door closing softly, the rustle of fabric indicating nearing movement, and instinctively flinched backwards to flatten himself to the nearest wall. Suddenly, in the fog of panic clouding his mind, a single black eye appeared inches from his face, making his breath hitch and lodge more permanently in his throat—it seemed to assess him for a long moment, before withdrawing. Then a light flickered on from somewhere above him, and the god had to close his eyes just as a gruff voice started speaking:

“Not so glorious now, are we?” Fury snapped from his standing position. “I bet you didn’t expect to end up back here, of all places, now that you had your big brother’s support. How does it feel, being held powerless after all this time? Which reminds me, how the hell did you fall back to Earth—oh, Midgard, my bad—if you were supposed to be in prison already? Jail time got boring after, what, a year? I thought you immortals developed a more resilient patience than that. How were they supposed to _stand_ you after the first century?”

“I suggest you hold your tongue, Director,” Loki hissed between clenched teeth. “Me and Thor are not related. And I don’t see how being undeserving of someone’s respect makes me any less to you, since you already care less than nothing of what might befall me.”

“Ah, but you _care_. It makes all the difference to _you_ , Odinson.” Loki muttered in an attempt to correct his way of addressing him. “Yes, well, your family feuds don’t interest me. But you haven’t answered me—was it really so bad up there that you might want to escape so soon? Did they use torture, in which case I would be tempted to ask for suggestions as soon as we can reach your brother. How about Odin, is he still watching over us?”

“I do not understand why my- the royal family matters so much to you, Director Fury. Surely you can ask Thor about all of this?”

“You see,” Fury leaned forward, his tone mocking and sharp, pinning him to the wall with a resolute stare. “This seems the only topic you ever avoided talking about, even before. Given my experience in the field, this is the first sign this line on inquiry will get answers out of you faster. Should I ask if _our_ myths are true as well? How about that time you got your lips sewn shut by your father? Do you even have children? And clarify on this—were you the mare of the stallion that one time?”

_Don’t you_ dare. _Breathe, but don’t give them anything more. They cannot know if you stay silent—your memories can’t be accessed, you made sure of that. Shut up. SHUT UP!_

Loki knew he was breathing more raggedly than normal, but it could be attributed to shouting himself hoarse. There was nothing to find in his unsteady gaze, two pools reflecting nothing but the pain from before, his face carved into stone. He kept his eyes focused on Fury’s eyepatch, only then noticing the ridges and scars peeking from under the tissue, and he couldn’t help but draw comparisons between him and Odin. A shiver ran down his spine, unbidden—in his state, he wasn’t sure whether Fury would overlook it or go in for the kill.

“We were also told—by Thor, nonetheless—of your adoption, but he left us hanging on the details, so. What exactly are you, Odinson?”

 

_Ah._

 

For a long moment, everything stilled, not a breath exhaled in the small cell. The temperature seemed to drop by several degrees, the chilly air condensing on the floor and rolling down the walls, creating damp spots all around them. Loki let his gaze span the entirety of the room, unseeingly, the brief silence that had engulfed them stretching out between the Director’s growing discomfort, before sliding it back up the man’s body in an all too piercing manner. When he met his eye again, he took twisted pleasure in seeing flashes of red reflected into the fearful orb.

“Something you wouldn’t like, Director,” he spoke neutrally, not a hint of emotion hidden beneath the cold—hah—rage that had taken over him. “The culmination of your nightmares or an alien, unknown entity in your spectrum—it _matters_ not. You believe yourself in control, _human_ , but you haven’t the slightest idea of what you’re dealing with. Were I so inclined I could annihilate this building with a flick of my wrist, and you _presume_ to keep blabbering about events you cannot even begin to understand?” Loki righted himself, the chains a grounding weight on his tired limbs, as he held himself high with all the pride fitting of a true Prince.

“I will not answer to any of your idiotic attempts at provoking me. Now, do us both a favour, and spare yourself by exiting this room.”

As the other hurried to slam the heavy door behind him, Loki slid down the wall, breathing heavily once again to quell the surge of foreign magic he had felt inside him, so sudden and powerful that the manacles hadn’t been able to suppress it in time. Had he more of an opportunity to study it, he would be overjoyed with the distraction. Alas, as things stood, he had little options but to avoid it being recognised as a hostile force—more than was now, anyway—in the hopes that they did not try to pry it away as well. 

Grunting at the bindings’ curse tearing his insides apart, he leant back and let his eyes slide shut, giving himself over to unconsciousness to deep to be called sleep.


	2. Spit It Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from this [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUHC9tYz8ik).

There was a time when he might have considered ending it all, taking that one final leap to ensure pain couldn’t ensnare him anymore. That time was filled by internal turmoil, and yet by a drive deep within him to sort it all out, to find himself again amidst of all the chaos. And he did—he found himself, what he was with all the terribly hidden lies and pretences, and he rejected it all with a mind already fallen to madness, beginning his mad rush towards his newfound goal, which might have entailed mass genocide and his own death, on the _unfortunate_ occasion he could somehow manage to survive the events that he had planned so accurately for. Alas, seeing them thwarted so easily by his now not-brother—right, he had to account for the reshaping of all he had ever known true so far—had been the last straw: he could not bear to look Odin in the eye again, and so he let go.

As days slowly passed, Loki began to feel that manic desperation making its way through his brain anew, burrowing into all the holes he thought fixed, or at least protected. It was hard to ignore the itch to _snap_ , to lash out and maim at least one of the humans that sometimes came to question him, as if he had anything left to give them apart from his ever-weakening body.

That would have been another cause for concern, had he bothered to focus enough on anything other than lost chances and broken bonds. His magic couldn’t come back to his body quick enough for him to actually channel it to heal, and it was taking a toll on him, to be so _close_ to regaining his energies only for them to be sapped away all at once. The process was quick, but it left him suppressing pained shouts and shivering more than once, as what he had come to associate to as his Jotunn magic took over and tried to soothe his aches. Loki wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —allow it to manifest, and so he was left rotting in his cell, with almost no sustenance because no one could be bothered to bring it to him—not that he deserved it anyway—the only company allowed to him being the occasional agent that came by to insult him.

The mage gave it a couple of weeks before his body started to rot, and he was actually kind of relieved that this time it might be for good.

 

[][][][][][]

 

Loki was sitting in the corner of his cell on one day such as these—not that it ever changed, but _still_ —awaiting his next ‘withdrawal’ that was due to come in a little while, since it had been hours from his last one—or what could be perceived as such, seeing as he had no real way to tell the course of time, as he was reminded of the Void yet again. He mostly stayed there, leaning against the wall and trying not to let his mind wander too far from the present where it could become lost. Thinking of his younger days, when Frigga would still walk among them, his not-brother still acknowledged him and his once-father would still look at him not with contempt nor disdain, but with respect and a distinct lack of animosity.

Just as a sigh escaped him, a loud, rushed knocking jarred him so much that he almost let himself freeze the room once more. Loki regained his full control with shaky breaths just as the heavy door swung open, the darkness around him receding as lights turned on for the first time in days, and he had to shut his eyes—both for fear of them turning crimson, and to keep the sudden brightness to worsen his constant headache. This didn’t keep his ears to catch a string of muttered curses, followed by what sounded like a strange sort of shuffling—plastic?—and many objects being placed on the ground. The muttering voice, which Loki had realised was distinctly un-Fury-like, only grew in volume at his apparent lack of response, and he could finally grasp some of the nonsense that was spouting from the mortal’s mouth.

“What the _fuck_ , Fury. I mean, you behaving like a spy proper shouldn’t really surprise me _this_ much, and yet here I am. _Jesus_ , this is like what a modernised version of Afghanistan would look like, and _I_ had another person with me, with _stuff_ to tinker with. Fuck, _shit,_  what if he’s gone crazier? Like, I know I would’ve, I can only imagine spending days like this, and with nothing to do with yourself... Man, I _really_ shouldn’t be here, but fuck, how can I let something like this-“

Loki stared. Then stared some more. Finally, when the mortal seemed to have exhausted his stream of words, he dared move from his apparently relaxed sprawl on the ground, sitting up so he could climb up to his feet by supporting himself with the concrete wall.

“What,” he rasped, his voice long worn and tired from all the shouting, “in the Norns’ name are you spouting?”

The man flinched from his crouched position over several—indeed—plastic bags, all containing some kind of colourful boxes printed over in a gaudy and annoying script. Slowly, painstakingly, he got up and turned to face the god—wait, not anymore—the _ex_ -god with his hands raised in the universal sign of peace, all his masks in place so not one emotion could be perceived aside from calculating curiosity. If the mortal was afraid—which he supposed wasn’t the case, since he was sure he looked like a walking corpse—he didn’t have the slightest intention to show it.

Loki’s lips twitched.

“Well, excuse me for being a tad _nervous_ when standing in a cell with a supposed ‘war criminal’.” A scoff. “As if that were even true. That’s just how I work, really. Anyway, since this shithole—and _wow_ , I didn’t even go for literal there but it fits perfectly—refuses to feed its prisoners properly, and _yes_ , this is at you Fury, I mean do you want them to die here? What is this, the 1800s? So, well, I brought you food and mind you, this might not even to your tastes, but how could I know what you preferred to _eat_ , I thought about looking into some old files but there was nothing relevant about food—why would there be, it’s not like we _care,_ right—and like, this is my first time doing this so please go gentle on me?”

A tense, uncomfortable silence filled the room, although that was true for only one side of it.

Loki had lived for millennia, and had encountered countless beings, from the most intelligent and advanced, to the simplest and most common creatures. He admitted to having always been fascinated by foreign customs and cultures and he often tried to find time to travel to every accessible part of any Realm, if only to gather knowledge and marvel at the distinctly different ways they all worked. Therefore, the mage could count on one hand the times he was rendered speechless by anything, really, be it a fearsome warrior or an alluring plant that he was particularly keen on setting his hands on.

That was why, after the mortal’s rather impressive display of lung capacity, all Loki’s wary, tired, and scrambled brain could muster to say was:

“... I believe you still have one drink to offer me, Stark.”

At this, Stark perked up, his shoulders losing much of their previous tension, and he turned again giving his back to Loki in order to rummage again through the bags. This was... not what he was expecting from the man. In fact, he had thought it logical for him to want to inflict at the very least some kind of punishment, both for the city he had half-heartedly-almost destroyed—and he would be lying if he said he was even remotely sorry for that—and for having defenestrated him—Midgard’s vernacular was just a _joy_ to utilise sometimes, they had words for every little thing—without thinking of the consequences that very action might have brought upon the Nines. Loki was positive that had the humans not closed the portal right then, Thanos would have had complete access to everywhere his revolting army touched down on. If anything, he should be grateful to Stark for decimating them, but not in a thousand years he expected anything less than raw hostility towards him.

“Luckily, I brought the good stuff.” Loki watched as the man gave a triumphant huff and straightened one more, holding an amber bottle and two small paper cups. “Yeah, well. They wouldn’t let me through here with glass, for some fucking reason, and I had to make do with what I had. I have better arrangements at home, but somehow I feel it would be hard to get you to come to visit me. Bummer.” Stark deftly uncapped the bottle— _clever hands_ —and hurried to pour a liberal amount of the liquid in each, winking at him with all the smugness he could manage to fit on his already enormous head.

“Yes, somehow I doubt my leave would be taken well at all.”

“Useless, if you ask me. What did you even _do,_ aside from destroying a block or two?” A curious note entered Stark’s tone. As far as interrogations went, this was surely the most pleasant one yet—still, Loki was not about to give himself away.

“I had to gain my reputation as God of Mischief somehow, and were it not for you I would have been a conqueror as well. You might want to re-evaluate your assessment of me, after this insight.”

“Bullshit. You don’t want to reign, or you would have been called the God of Kingdoms instead. But take the glass, will you? It tastes awesome, I swear—I poured it out and everything.” Stark stepped closer with quick, determined strides, and Loki couldn’t help but flinch away from the sudden movement, instantly berating himself for the show of weakness. The mortal didn’t seem to have noticed though, and still extended one hand towards him, nodding encouragingly still with his patented smirk plastered on his face. Gaze flicking from the dark sloshing liquor to the hopeful expression he sported, Loki scoffed and half turned away from Stark, directing his eyes to a wet patch of concrete behind the now confused man.

Loki stayed quiet, trying to distract himself with thoughts that were meant to distance himself from the action, but in his head there was only the image of an extended hand, reaching for a possibility, cut off from any other possible choice, and the Void everywhere he could see. That, and he didn’t trust the human not to have put anything in the drink. He was still a prisoner here, albeit one with very little to give.

In the corner of his eye he saw Stark give a little shrug, and bring the proffered glass to his lips, downing it in one sound gulp.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to talk, really. I’m not probably the first person you want to trust in here, but then again,” he chuckled mirthlessly, “when _am_ I ever. I came here mostly to offer you an alternative to this… _nothing,_  I guess. Someone who doesn’t want to flay you alive at first sight. And don’t worry about Fury or anything like him, Rock of Ages, I looped the feed in that camera as soon as I came in—now it’s just me asking pre-recorded questions and making vague threats about ‘ _avenging New York_ ’.”

Stark inhaled the other glass as well before continuing. “So, this looks very much like a picnic, but I’m afraid it isn't so simple. At all. Y’ see, about four years ago there was this _huge_ portal opened right above the landing pad of my Tower—ballsy move, I’ll give you that—and this swarm of disgusting _things_ —I’m not even racially biased, those guys were just _horrifying_ —came down onto us. Actually, more like invaded us. Almost thought we didn’t have a means of closing the damn thing, but then the higher ups swooped in with a _nuke_ and, well. The rest is history. We won! Hurray!” Loki closed his eyes, unable to tune out the deep voice. “But it turns out, I lost more on that fucking day than in all my life as a glorified metal case.” He heard the man sigh deeply. “I had a… partner once, and I really can’t be more specific because we never really _were_ anything serious, but she was… she had helped me a lot. But after New York? She was _scared_ of me, of how far I could go to protect the world—she ran away, and honestly, I can’t really fault her, I wouldn’t wanna stay with damaged goods either. Then, I lost sleep, but that’s not relevant, I never slept even before shit went down. In this case, you could say I _gained_ the nightmares I see whenever close my eyes. It left me with no alternative aside from countless bottles and JARVIS-”

Stark cut himself off so abruptly, that Loki couldn’t help but pry his eyes open, just a little, to see the pain that morphed the inventor’s face for a split second, his eyes now vacant as he immersed more into his memories. It was hard not to when the mage could very well retrace the same steps that had gotten him there, in that cell, and see just how much of their stories overlapped. Granted, these were totally difficult circumstances, but the absolute _loss_ he could hear in Stark’s voice?

Yes. He knew that, _intimately_.

“I cannot apologise for any of that. I am sure my words would amount to very little to you.” And wasn’t that his whole life in a sentence, he thought with a pang in his chest.

Another huff of laughter, a little more lively this time. “Didn’t expect you to. I just…” There was a charged pause where Loki felt his stomach drop, the tense atmosphere from before coming back full force. “I wanted to ask you some questions, but mind you, you don’t have to answer them. At this point, I’m just looking for some peace of mind and… I thought this could help.”

And there it was, the true cause behind the impromptu visit, the very thing that made Stark no different from the others.

“So you are still digging for information at my expense. You could have avoided crafting a conveniently shaped fabrication to appeal to my _humanity._ ” Loki’s voice dripped venom even as he closed himself off—trying to place his lies as a shield against the raw _hurt_ that threatened to slip through the cracks.

The mortal’s eyes widened with the accusation. “Why would I lie about _myself_? What kind of person do you think I am?”

“The very same that could pretend to _care_ while carrying out an order, like the good _pet_ you are.”

“ _Pretend_? Are you listening to yourself?”

“My ears work just fine, mortal. Perhaps it is you who would need to get yours checked.”

“I _told_ you, you can _not_ answer things you do _not_ want to say! Why are you making such a big deal out of this?”

“ _BECAUSE I DO NOT HAVE A CHOICE!_ ”

 

Silence engulfed them.

They were both slightly panting, worked up by the argument they had started with no real reason—except there was one, a gigantic elephant in the room. What Stark had implicitly asked of him, without even realising it, was something Loki could not give away. Not anymore. As he stared into those wide brown eyes, he saw a spark of recognition, and he knew the genius had indeed caught up to him.

“Loki-“

“No,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “You speak of things you cannot fathom, and yet you pretend to show understanding of them. You ask me to recount years of my life I would happily see _burn_ away into nothingness. You do not even _know_ what your questions might unleash, and you venture forth with no regards whatsoever of _what_ you’re interested in. And you _pretend to care,_ ” Loki’s voice kept steadily rising through his speech, breaking in many points and forcing him to swallow down the sudden knot in his throat. “You pretend because so long as it doesn’t hurt you, then it is none of your concern. Although I am the one in chains, you claim to give me _freedom_ of speech, and act as if I wouldn’t be _coerced_ into answering to your satisfaction in any case. You taunt me into _believing_ you, when _trust_ is the one thing that has been ripped away from me so many times, I wonder whether my judgement has ever been any sounder than my mind.” His eyes were burning now, but his words still flowed as the magic he felt coiled under his skin, the cold seeping through. Without realising it, he had taken as many steps as his chains allowed him, rattling all the way from his shaky arms to their holding place on the wall. He clenched his hands to stop the pathetic trembling, even though his face had to show more than enough to reveal _everything_.

“And yet here I stand, with no other option than to answer you, if only to obey what little care I have for myself. So ask to your heart’s content, because weakened as I may be, I will not allow a chance like this to present itself again.” Loki steeled his resolve and looked right ahead, recklessly glaring down at the man, holding himself with faked confidence he was sure looked miserable from the outside.

Stark looked stricken. He hadn’t taken any steps back, but his shoulders were hunched and he looked like he was straining not to turn away—his previously smug exterior had been completely erased, leaving behind twitching hands and pale skin, the impression he had just seen a ghost or some equally terrifying creature clear on his slack features, along with the clinical curiosity that made him such a good scientist. Loki was willing to bet that was the same expression he wore when he had first seen the Chitauri, and the comparison only made his chest constrict even more.

Some kind of sick desire to be _seen_ , even by one such as Stark, made him still under his scrutiny, even as the man finally let his eyes wander all over his face—his blue, _monstrous_ face—down his body, exposed arms and where his tunic bunched up, revealing a thin strip of skin, only to continue down to his bare feet. After what felt like eons, the same dark orbs met his again, only this time they held an unexpected warmth in them.

“You are really blue, then?” Stark softly asked, taking a step closer to him.

Loki refused to step back—he was not _afraid_ —simply nodding jerkily. He couldn’t help the way his breath hitched though, eyes widening minutely, when Stark began to slowly raise a hand, hovering it inches from his own straining fingers. His breath sped up, and the mage could actually see it condensing in front of his face as he exhaled shakily, as he noticed the slight shivers running through the smaller man’s frame.

 _That_ was what snapped Loki out of his trance-like state—he shook his head decisively, stepping back to put some much-needed distance between them.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he whispered, voice cracking and so, so _broken_ , low enough that had the room been any less silent it would have been lost in the chaos. “I will burn you if you touch me. I… do not wish to bring forth any more destruction than I already _have_.”

At this, a determined flame seemed to light the man from within—he closed the distance again, stubbornly keeping his eyes boring into Loki’s, and reached out to brush one rough finger against his pale knuckles. The contact was… _electrifying_. Loki had expected it to burn, but he gasped when, instead of searing heat, his body registered only warm, soft callouses softly stroking the back of his hands—the sensation amplified when Stark’s whole palm joined in an almost overwhelming mix of sensations. And he didn’t jolt back from the cold either—he just shivered some more and let himself finally be distracted by the _miracle_ that the mortal had performed without apparently trying.

“Huh.” Stark let out a huff, grasping Loki’s hand more firmly and turning them over, effectively shutting down any brain functions left in him. “Your hands are actually _really_ soft. Was this what you were worried about, me discovering you have great skin?” The lighthearted humour bled out of his tone, settling into a quieter but nonetheless satisfied murmur. Loki could hear the _smile_ the other’s voice. “It was just a hunch, but I figured: Frost Giants don’t need to freeze people _all_ the time, and the way it’s talked about makes it sound more like a defence mechanism than something that just _is_. So it would make sense that you wouldn’t arbitrarily turn everything you touch into a popsicle. It just goes to show you don’t want to hurt anyone. Or, well,” he grimaced a bit at that and stroked his thumb across the open palms he was holding, “no one that is willing to see that, at the very least. I’ve got a couple of theories about how that all works, but-“

“You are unharmed,” Loki blurted out, interrupting the genius who was surely about to launch into a tirade about the _hows_ and _whys_ Jotunn skin would not hurt him. The ex-god couldn’t help the awe that seeped into his whispered dare—he realised, numbly, that now he was shaking with his whole body.

Stark lifted his face from his dedicated observation and gave him a grin, small but nonetheless sincere. “I can kinda relate to what you’re thinking. A part of it, at least. It’s got to be that feeling of _not being good enough_ , yeah? I know, I know—‘you’re a genius, engineer, _whatever,_  you’re the best at everything _and_ you’re rich, you can’t really complain.’ And I’m not, for the most part. But I’ve been there: left behind, substituted for someone else, someone who counted _more_ than me. It’s not what I have, it’s what I cannot give back because no one allowed me to.” Now his eyes were seemingly shining far too bright to be normal, but the mage had stopped seeing things clearly for a while now. “I can only imagine what-“ Stark suddenly froze, and Loki shut his eyes to prepare himself for the inevitable slew of insults and ' _I take it back’_ s-

“Are you _crying_?”

He shuddered with his next exhale, the force of it nearly taking him down even as Loki lurched in on himself, finally letting his badly contained tears run freely down his cheeks—where they _stung_ as they froze over, and now he was conflicted whether to take his hands back and attempt to wipe them away or to leave them gathering _warmth_ -

“Just one more thing, Reindeer Games.” And then he felt Stark reluctantly leave one of his hands, only to cup his jaw and gently tilt his head back up, to look into orbs so full of empathy it actually made him dizzy. How could one look hold so _much_ significance for both of them? The man smiled gently even as he held Loki—albeit a bit awkwardly hanging sideways—in his arms, with no hint of remorse or disgust on his face.

“It’s _who,_  not _what._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... hi again! *sweats*
> 
> don't worry everyone, i don't do slow burns (or i would have tagged it) and these two are in for quite the emotional ride. strap on.  
> side note: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE LOVE SHOWN SO FAR, i can't believe people actually liked this. guess late night inspirations do make great material.  
> kudos and comments are fuel, don't hold back.  
> i'd also love to hear your thoughts about where you all think this is going. hit me up with them ideas!


	3. Little Hope

... He did not know what to make of Stark.

Having lived his most recent years either in captivity or constantly hiding, being locked away into yet another dark room made little to no difference to him, it was almost something he expected to happen. His jailors were seldom of kind disposition, prepared for his scathing comments and unrelenting will to _kneel_ for them—no matter that he didn’t have the energy or presence of mind to actually resist them anymore. It was mostly inertia, at this point. He had believed Midgard to be no different, and while the lack of torture was a worrying thought, they had met his expectations fairly well—after all, starvation and sensory deprivation was not something he was inexperienced with, considering the _corrections_ he had endured the many times Odin had deemed him  _worthy_.

Then, enter Stark.

The man defied any and all parametres of understanding: where Loki had expected noncurance and hatred, he came forth with a resemblance of care he could only compare to Frigga’s, that motherly attention he was subjected to all those years ago. It did wonders in throwing him off, as no one had ever behaved like that with him while holding him captive at the same time—he wasn’t sure what to trust anymore, the pain or the _surely_ feigned kindness. Loki was not going to believe the illusion a second time—he had vowed that to himself when the Mad Titan had been playing with his mind like one would an instrument.

However, he could not simply ignore his gesture. The way he had fearlessly approached him, not unlike a child facing the unknown with too much curiosity to turn back, and the comforting, almost _placating_ words he had spoken would be something Loki would treasure, even if Stark ended up not meaning them.

Thus, the next time Stark would come back—he had said as much, and the mage didn’t peg him for a liar, not in this context at the very least—Loki would humour him but not reveal anything that could expose more than he already had, and hope that when he revealed his true intentions he would not suffer too greatly from allowing the small spark of hope he could already feel inside him to fester.

He had always been very good at playing pretend.

 

[][][][][][]

 

The next time _anyone_ came by Loki’s cell turned out to be more than a week later.

There had been a distinct lack of human-shaped lumps of meat ambling around, and he didn’t even hear the footsteps that would occasionally be heard scurrying through the corridor outside. It left him with almost no distractions nor outlets for his pent up tension—and it was draining, coupled with the occasional ‘withdrawal' that left him heaving for air with a throat so parched, he was sure he had been inhaling fire all the while. He had not seen nourishment since he had gorged on the last of Stark’s—and that had been the very same day he had brought it. It wasn't enough to fill him since his body needed way more sustenance than a mortal's, but at the time it had quieted down his stomach.

Loki almost huffed a laugh at the thought—he had actually believed the human when he had told him he’d be back. He had to concede that it was a very effective tactic, to exploit the enemy’s weakness to make them believe—only to snatch that glimmer of companionship away to further weaken them. He couldn’t even feel bitter enough to hate Stark—his acting had been one the old God of Mischief would have praised. The thought made his empty stomach lurch uncomfortably.

Suddenly, as Loki lost himself deeper into his self-deprecating spiral of accusations, a great number of voices and footsteps snapped him out of it. He tensed from his spot on the floor, and readied to get up in order to confront the first sign of life to grace him in what seemed way too long—this time they had let the lights on, at least.

Then, with no warning whatsoever, catching him completely off-guard, Loki felt his magic—his Asgardian magic—surge up within him, replenished enough to rise to the mage’s internal turmoil. Almost at the same time, the manacles lit up with an unearthly golden glow, reflecting off his wide green eyes.

_No-_

The curse tore through him with eerie precision, irradiating from his wrists and spreading to his arms, chest, legs—it could only be described as something plucking every _ounce_ of seiðr from his body, without any care for it as it was _burned_ and rendered useless by the effectiveness of the spell. Loki wasn’t prepared for it—he couldn’t remember the last time it had  _happened_. Amidst the confusion and resignation he hadn’t thought of keeping track of them, even more so because the attacks were as unpredictable as the time his magic spent recharging.

He managed to suppress the sounds that were trying to escape him, biting his lip so hard he could taste blood, and tried to right himself as the footsteps approached his door. Needless to say, he wasn’t quite managing—muffled grunts of pain and tremors from the shock of it all impeding the movement of his limbs, Loki found stability at the very last by wrapping his quaking arms around his knees and hiding his face there, curled up as small as he could into a corner, hoping to offer less weak spots than, say, his whole being.

That was when the door opened.

“-fuck off, okay, I don’t have time for this-“

“-would listen to me, Stark, he is in no condition-“

“You’re keeping him locked away. In a _cell_. With the _no-mojo_ cuffs on. Of _fucking_ course he is ‘in no condition’ to do anything!”

“He is a  _war criminal_ , Stark! How many times are you going to spew this nonsense about ‘not him’, huh?”

“As long as it takes for you to  _get_ , Raisins. Now let me through, or I _swear_ to JARVIS I will find a way to eradicate this little circus of yours from Earth’s _surface_.”

There was a moment of blessed silence, during which Loki attempted to tamper down his sudden splitting headache, not helped by the puny arguing. Everything was pulsing and, Norns, he felt like this was one big cosmic joke, reduced to a whimpering mess quivering so violently in a corner the God almost couldn’t recognise himself anymore. Then again, he had to remember—this if not anything else—that he had always felt less tethered than others, be it by his ever-changing morals or the eternal feeling of _disappointment_ following everywhere he went.

A soft groan escaped him, making him involuntarily flinch—he tensed up even more when he heard movement approaching from outside.

“ _Shit_ ,” was the only warning he got before there were hands touching his shoulders, and it was happening _again why did the mortal not fear what he was-_ “Loki? Loki I need you to breathe, okay? Come on, just brea-“

“Stop _touching_ me,” Loki hissed, still hidden between his knees, thoughts muddled by pain—he was straining to get ahold of the ice, but no matter how hard he grasped it slipped his control nonetheless. He felt himself go cold, colder, and shook with the numbing sensation running along his skin. Loki noticed that the hands were gone though, so maybe it wasn’t so bad.

“Okay, okay, uh. I really need to check on you though, so at least answer my questions? Not about… other stuff, just you, right now.” When the received to verbal response Stark sighed and tried again, soothingly. “At least nod if it’s okay?” Loki hesitated for a second, then slowly gave his assent. “Great. So. Do you remember how you came on Earth?” Unfortunately. “How about Thor, do you know where he is?” Possibly, but he wasn’t certain. What might have happened to him in the Bifrost often had random consequences—a shake of the head. “Are you in pain right now?” Technically, he had stopped cringing from the curse a while ago, since the spell wasn’t made to last long—but the very much unpleasant aftershocks were still there, so he nodded jerkily, peeking from over his crossed arms.

Stark was crouching in front of him, hands hovering uncertainly. He was frowning slightly, somewhat concerned, but mostly filled with annoyance and a good dose of anger. Loki wasn’t sure it was directed at him—given his argument with Director Fury, who was _still_ standing by the door—but he couldn’t help shifting nervously under the scrutiny. This was the expression he had expected to be confronted with in the beginning, but it felt somehow _wrong_ to have it directed at him now—especially when his worrying gestures contrasted so heavily with such poor masked displeasure.

Loki thought it well to appease him, possibly due to the quite frightening look that was only worsening with the seconds ticking by.

“It is only caused by the manacles, Stark. They were made to negate my magic, as you know, and the process requires means that are not entirely... _pleasing_ , but it does not last too long to become unbearable,” he croaked out, coughing harshly to banish the dryness of his throat.

He was startled by Stark suddenly standing, twirling around and marching towards Fury with a terrible expression on his face, and the Director actually took a step back at this. The engineer didn’t seem to notice the hand that was slowly reaching for the gun under his black vest—he just stopped shy of arms’ reach and seemed to want nothing more than to set the spy ablaze by glaring. There appeared to be a great deal of restraining on Stark’s part, if the twitching of his hands said anything about the situation. Eventually, he just took a deep breath, visibly counted to ten, and turned back to Loki with a much softer expression on his face—his words were still able to cut through the tension like a very sharp knife.

“I sure hope you remember our deal, Fury,” Stark ground out as he kneeled next to him again. “Because he’s _so_ coming with me right now.”

Wait, _what_.

“Stark.”

“Don’t ’Stark’ me, Bad Cop. We talked about this, came to some conclusions, reached an agreement. We said we wouldn’t be assholes-“

“Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

“-and that _you_ would listen to _me_ for once. And since you agreed with me on this, that he’s at the very _absolute_ least less guilty than we gave him credit for, what the _hell_ are you still doing there on the fucking doorstep? He doesn’t deserve to be here like this. _Move_.”

“I _really_ hope you know what you’re doing.” Fury still hadn’t moved, but his face was scrunched with something akin to displeasure. “And I’ll make damn sure _you_ remember the deal—I’ll be checking in for reports weekly.”

Loki just sat there, sure he was misinterpreting the discussion. He stared, open-mouthed. Stark reached out once again, ignoring the Director completely, smiling warmly, giving him the _choice_ of taking his hands or standing up for himself. He didn’t grab him, nor ordered him around—he waited for _Loki_ to take the first step. Maybe that was why he slowly unfurled, joints aching from staying locked in the same uncomfortable position for a while, and slowly, hesitatingly, he went to tentatively latch on to Stark’s hands. He barely repressed a shudder as the man caressed the back of his own, the same gentle motion he had done weeks prior, as he dragged him upright, still not taking his warm brown eyes away from him for a second.

When they were both standing—Loki staggering a bit due to a weakness in his body he hadn’t thought possible—the genius was still grinning at him, albeit softer.

“There you go,” he murmured lowly, shifting his hold more securely before coaxing Loki into following hisead to the door, where Fury _still_ hadn’t moved.

Loki tried to straighten his back—partly pride, partly because he didn’t want Stark to think of him as useless yet, lest he changed his mind and left him there— to glare at the Director, following Stark’s example. The man was quite intimidating, when he wanted to be, and Loki had a weird sense of deja vu despite not knowing what it was about.

The spy managed to last a whole two minutes under the pressure of two of the most powerful people he knew, before averting his gaze and turning to walk back brusquely, muttering expletives all the while. Loki knew it wouldn’t be the last he saw of him—that and the aforementioned deal with Stark—but it was _such_ a relief to know he was mostly free.

Hesitatingly, he let the engineer lead him out of his cell. The hall was full of agents, all armed, but Stark didn’t seem to even notice them as he strode past confidently while keeping one hand firmly over his. Affecting a bored visage, putting up yet one more feeble shield to keep his own mess from spilling out, Loki marched alongside him, meeting angry and resentful glares with feigned nonchalance and a touch of disdain—the greatest expression for the God of Lies.

Together, they cut through the facility and finally exited the cursed building to where a car—Stark’s drive, no doubt—was waiting for them.

Loki staggered as the man’s touch briefly left him, but subtly regained what remained of his composure as Stark opened the car’s door for him, trying to seem unconcerned about his fate, whatever that would be. He willed himself to ignore how his hands briefly followed, wishing to capture more of the other’s warmth.

(But seriously, after going so long without, was it so surprising that something so little could mean more than _anything_ for him?)

The ride to... wherever Stark had decided to bring him was spent in relative silence, if one excluded the man’s constant rambling—he was beginning to question whether he was of another species entirely, a _human_ surely could not go on without air that much—but Loki found it soothing, rather than excruciatingly annoying. It became a sort of background noise that allowed him to think about nothing, if only he concentrated enough on his words, and a couple of times he found himself actually invested in what the human had to say—specifically when talking about some experiments he had been doing in his lab. The vague apprehension that made him tense up was justified, he supposed—he couldn’t do anything to Stark if he decided to poke and prod at him, because he had, ultimately, got him out of that Hel-scape that was the cell. He was still indebted to him.

He shook his head minutely. Stark was not someone he envisioned exacting pleasure from others’ suffering—perhaps in another universe, but he still remembered how he behaved from last time, and he firmly believed he wouldn’t do something like that.

He _had_ to.

When the vehicle came to a stop, Loki gazed listlessly outside. He must have not hidden his nerves properly—he was still a bit too shaken to put on his infallible masks—because Stark huffed a laugh and just gestured for him to go on ahead when the driver had gotten around opening the door for him. He ducked outside, breathing in deeply and relishing in the few lungfuls of fresh air he had since he first fell on Midgard—he had been too agitated before to notice—when his eyes finally took in the building they had stopped at, and was not surprised to find Stark Tower standing as tall as ever.

“Still impressive, right?” The man in question quipped good-naturedly. He shuffled awkwardly for a second before continuing, “I know this must be... sudden for you, and uhm, this place might bring back some not-so-good memories but, I _promise_ I’ll do my best to make you as cozy as possible, yeah?”

Stark was staring straight ahead, some anxiousness filtering through his easy-going attitude even as he didn’t meet his gaze, and Loki took the chance to _really_ look at him.

Tony Stark had aged. There was a tightness around his eyes, many more wrinkles and a heavy air that seemed to weight him down every other second, and even his posture was not the self assured man that had subdued him once. He still looked dashing in his three piece—for Loki couldn’t deny the truth of that statement—but the slouch and his curved shoulders denoted a tiredness that had not been there when he had pointed his technology at him. He looked... almost resigned.

Thinking back about what he had told Loki about the events post-invasion, he surmised that could only be logical, but he felt there was more at play than what the man had let on. Still, it wasn’t his business to pry into, and he did not wish the enrage the genius by pushing.

When Stark turned to look at him inquisitively, given his too long silence, Loki quickly averted his stare and focused back on the building. _Memories, huh?_

“I am glad for the hospitality. My only regret would be to impose, though given the nature of my last visit I did not believe that wouldn’t be a possibility,” he said dryly, a bit of self-loathing showing on the displeased curve of his mouth.

“Oh, zip it, you using the double negative is bad enough. I’m so past that old New York bullshit it’s started to become the least of my worries. Well, recently at least, but y’ know. Nightmares keep it pretty fresh.”

Loki grimaced ruefully as they walked in and to one of the two elevators. “Yes, I... know that.”

“Yeah, figured. If you ever need to talk, by the way, I always have a ear available—or just ask FRIDAY, my girl is already listening. Hey FRI? This is Loki, say hi.”

“Hello, Mr. Loki. Welcome to the Avengers Tower,” a female voice startled him enough to send him flinching against one of the elevator walls, clenching his fist near his chest as a reflex to protect himself. And what the voice had said was enough to send a shiver of pure fear down his spine.

_The ‘Avengers’ Tower?_

“You…” he gasped, eyes wide and jittery thoughts swirling around his head, why was he always so quick to follow people he didn’t know the objective of? Had he learned _nothing_ at all? Then, he was reminded of his own words: _you have no choice, Laufeyson_.

As he tried to breathe, _again_ , lungs constricting and walls around him closing in, he wondered whether the Mad Titan really had broken him for good. He realised that was a stupid thought the second it formed in his head, for he knew to be so battered even before the creature had laid a hand on him—a lifetime of his picture perfect family probably did him in centuries ago.

Loki could hear Stark’s voice through the rushing of blood in his ears, and struggled to hold on to that glimmer of sanity it offered, even though his blurred vision and pulsing head—closing his eyes tightly to avoid any more nausea. This was the second time the man saw him like this. He really had to get out of the manacles if he wanted to actually come to terms with his whole situation, as he couldn’t manage to focus on anything other than _holding back_ , for fear of hurting the one soul who hadn’t sold him away at the first chance. Or had he? They were now, for all intents and purposes, in what one would call the enemy lair, so could the mage really say anything about Stark that wasn’t _backstabbing traitor_?

And oh, but the _irony_ was simply gut-wrenching, wasn’t it? Should he really be feeling betrayed when he seemingly had done nothing _else_ for his whole life?

What a bloody _j_ _oke_.

Yet, he could hear Stark trying to get through him, not touching him—thank the Norns—but just vomiting words at an alarming speed.

“Loki, Loki _please_ stay with me, this was such a bad fucking idea I- FRI what the _fuck_ were you thinking, I told you not to call it  _that_ , I literally need to sign a paper to get it through your code? Shit, shit, _shit_! Lokes? Lokes you are  _safe_ , y’ hear me, you are with me, in _Stark_ Tower, where there are no Avengers whatsoever, nope, never heard of them. You are going to be okay, I swear... Also, I’m really holding myself back right now, because I don’t know how to help without touching you, so you better appreciate my goddamn efforts because this is killing me- no! Don’t pass out, please _breathe_ , you’re gonna be okay-"

Focusing on the feeling of safety the nonsensical words provided was far too easy, but Loki had to ground himself in some way. When he came to again and opened his eyes again, he noticed that the elevator doors were now open, and that Stark had literally fallen down next to him with his hands hovering over his shoulders. With a little voice seething inside him something that sounded like ‘ _pathetic_ ’, he shrugged him off angrily and went to stand up again, ashamed and irked that the man had not left him yet. How _weaker_ did he have to look like to remain alone?

“You’re okay Rudolph, lemme help you-“ came the quick exclamation, but Loki was having none of it.

“Leave me _be_ , Stark.”

“Well, I’m so sorry I’m offering my help to somebody who clearly needs it! And I was worried too, you know!”

“I’m tempted into strong disbelief."

Said man didn’t appear fazed by his sudden outburst, and instead just offered his elbow while apparently ignoring the mages demands fully. “At least let me show you your room, okay? I brought you all the way here for the _best_ possible accommodation you might find, since it’s _my_ house after all,” Stark had the gall to wink before nudging him with the offending appendice, and Loki had no other option but to take it—he had also realised that he was in no way walking on his own yet, as humiliating as that may be.

Beaming, the genius stepped out into a large living space that… Loki seemed to have recollection of, but since he had last been here—of what little came to mind—there had been some serious renovations, mostly because his body-shaped crater was no longer present, and of that he was extremely grateful.

Stark’s home didn’t seem very lived in, in any case: it looked sterile and somewhat plain, for all the expensive furniture and extravagant architecture this place was made out of—it wasn’t like Loki could have any idea about those, but it was _Stark_ , so he felt comfortable enough making that connection. There were very little signs of anyone spending their time there at all, and he had to marvel at the idea of someone like Tony Stark having few acquaintances that spent time with him. Surely, the man and his group of _heroes_ were close enough to be friends?

He couldn’t dwell too much on that though, because in moments they were standing at the end of a large corridor with numerous doors on either side. Loki wondered Stark’s was, and he was promptly answered his unvoiced question.

“So. Your room,” a finger pointing to a door to his right, “is over there, right next to mine. There are bathrooms for each, so you don’t have to worry about me wandering past naked or something like that. Though I wouldn’t mind,” he snickered when he saw Loki’s mildly appalled expression, “just  _kidding_ , Lokes. Anyway, you go get settled in, I’ll be down in the workshop doing reports if you need anything—gotta prevent Fury dear from having an aneurysm. And about FRIDAY,” the mage tensed up again at the mention of the voice, “she’s… kind of an assistant? But she’s an AI, I made her to help me out with work, so she’s not actually here.”

Oh. That made sense—it was why he hadn’t seen anyone earlier, and also mainly why he had panicked so badly. Incorporeal voices were not a good thing, given Loki’s experience.

“Please, tell her if you need anything—she does run most of the house by herself, and she’s in charge of security here. Any questions of place and time—hell, you want to know what people in _China_ are doing—she’ll tell you.”

“Always a pleasure, Boss,” the voice—FRIDAY—said, and Loki managed to just twitch this time, while he watched Stark stick out his tongue at apparently nothing.

What a curious man.

“Well then, duty calls, gotta scatter. See you later, Lokes!” Stark sighed as he waved, turning back to the elevator, and Loki felt a sudden spike of anxiousness hit him—he was alone in enemy territory, and he didn’t trust Stark when it came to the Avengers. They were still on opposite factions, last time being a dead giveaway of any sort of treatment he could ever expect from any Midgardian, so it was understandable how the hostility was making itself known—through imprisonment and constant observation. At the same time, Loki didn’t have a lot of options—it was either be on his own against everybody else, or submit to the man’s wishes and find temporary shelter in his home.

Perhaps, if Stark were to behave like he did so far, it wouldn’t be the worst thing he had ever experienced—actually, it wouldn't have been even _including_ his stay at SHIELD.

With a sigh, Loki watched the metal doors close in front of his new jailor, hiding him from view, and desperately wished the man to keep his word. Glaring at the manacles, he couldn’t help but allow himself to hope this—Stark, Midgard, his newfound magic, his life _for once—_ would be different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... TONY YA DOOF.  
> in their defence, none of them knows how to do this. they're as emotionally constipated as it gets. there's also a lot going on in this chapter because i wanted to get the nonimportant stuff out of the way quickly, norns know i will end up writing too much anyway.  
> and i added a couple of tags, just cause. i am debating whether to add the more important ones right now, but they'd be kinda spoilery so i probs won't.
> 
> also i love you all, thank you for the flooring support (1000+ hits?? _what is this_ ) and for sticking with this trainwreck of mine. *sends hugs*
> 
> ... what do you mean, endgame? i acknowledge no such thing in this house-


	4. Flip Of A Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's POV regarding pre, during and post Loki's stay at SHIELD's.

It had been hard, adjusting after Pepper left him. Even now, when the itch of his arc reactor got too insistent, he kind of wished she was there to distract him, hand him this or that document to sign, banter with him like old times. Then, he would smirk and wave her away, " _that will be all, Miss Potts_."

Not to say that he had tried to change much, either—Tony had no reason to. Granted, one could argue that being part of the reason Earth was still standing had to be pretty compelling.

He was inclined to disagree. 

It had happened, by chance, that Tony had come to know many incredible people over the course of his short life: the Avengers—and by proxy SHIELD—had changed his life forever. When he had been admitted into the program he had been overjoyed, for the chance to prove himself, to be a better version of whatever spawn Howard had generated. Tony had gladly taken over the position as external consultant—and he knew what it meant, but he was still part of the Initiative, so it’s not like it really mattered—and kept providing his new _teammates_ with new equipment, top-notch lodgings—at one point he built a whole Tower for them—and funding as infinite as his bank account allowed. Which was pretty damn infinite, by Stark standards. 

Sure, there were downsides to the whole thing—aliens and nightmares and near death experiences being high on the list—but it was gratifying to have some sort of recognition that went past the usual, “ _That’s Tony Stark, he used to make weapons and he’s mentally unstable!_ ”

Which was also written in the Initiative contract.

Although if asked “ _Why did you join these people, Stark?_ ”, the first thing he would probably say was that finally, after all these years of just Pepper and Rhodey choosing him over the other completely justifying and possibly more trustworthy options they had, he had what felt like a real team, friends—dare he say, a _family_.

Granted, they all had their fair share of flaws and issues—usually regarding him, but really, he knew they believed in him deep down—but they got along, quipped and pranked Steve on the phone he never learned how to use, teased Clint about his hots for Natasha and said assassin’s lack of reciprocation, shared war (or not) stories over mead and Thor's boisterous laughter, poked Bruce in the side with electrodes and watched him glance back amusedly while still sweating a bit inside (okay, that was mostly Tony, but he liked to think everyone was in on the joke as well.)

They worked together, like broken clockwork, but that was to be expected—and it felt _good_. And if Tony had to hide behind a golden plate and inside a metal suit—still _not_ iron, thanks—to make it work, it was okay. He had done the same thing for many years before anything superhero themed happened.

It kind of just slowly progressed like this, with none the wiser as to why there was actually no one in the Tower when there were several floors allocated to the Avengers. The inventor had stopped pestering them to " _stay_ , I have more than enough space, _really_ " when Clint had ‘jokingly’ threatened to break into JARVIS’ server room—not that it was possible, but he could still damage the structure, super spy and all that—and no one had lifted a finger in protest.

Still, Tony had deluded himself everything was fine between them—he knew the need of solitude perfectly well, and was in no position to judge.

(And so, once again, he was left alone to endure his own terrors, night and day ones alike. His self-doubt constantly gnawing at him to _act_ when there was nothing to be done but _wait_ , coupled with the renewed responsibility of handling his part-time job and CEO position, was steadily driving him up the wall.)

Then, well.

 _Ultron_ happened.

It had started fairly simple: go in, take the sceptre, go out, coincidentally give Asgard yet another weapon of mass destruction to keep locked away, and make Thor less sulky about his little brother’s temper tantrum.

It all took one small misstep, a show of arrogance that was wholly deserved, given the way he had destroyed HYDRA’s defence system like it was made of jelly. _One_ mistake. Suddenly, the house of cards he had so painstakingly tried to preserve came crumbling down, and he was surrounded by accusations, venom dripping from words and weapons alike, distrust a tangible taste in the air surrounding them. Tony didn’t understand though—had it not always been the case, had nobody ever thought about the bigger scale of events concerning the universe? What was so hard to imagine about an intergalactic threat, when approximately less than two years ago they had fought against goddamn _aliens_ and had their very own thundery being as an ally? Wasn’t a shield what they had desperately needed all along?

( _“So we can end the fight, so we can go home?”_ )

And so, they managed to isolate themselves like never before. Tony saw it all happen, and by the time he had come to terms that _he_ was the cause of all of it, General Ross had come and slapped them all in the face with the Accords. The genius already knew of their existence—because 117 nations agreeing to something was _not_ common enough to just remain unobserved, no matter the level of discretion—and had already debated on them for a long time to decide what his next step would be.

Thing is, he had been so guilt-ridden at the time that the idea of having their acts accounted for, some sort of legislation that finally could just stand there and declare ‘nope, not going through me with this’, was as reassuring as a security blanket. He knew what super-people could do, he witnessed it daily, and the thought of Sokovia happening again was more than he could handle.

They _needed_ this.

Too bad that he seemed to be the only one that cared enough about the world to say it. And no, Natasha didn’t count. She wasn’t exactly one to take sides, and even though she was on his momentarily Tony wasn’t going to make himself believe that she was going to stay there.

(Later, he would say ‘called it!’ when she let them all go like they were still her friends. She didn‘t even _know_ Barnes, for fuck‘s sake.)

There was no time to dwell on sides or legislation, though. After Leipzig and a quick visit back to Queens, delivering the kid back to his terribly worried aunt—and making shallow promises that _nothing_ was wrong, the live television stream had shown only the worst parts—he went to the RAFT.

Tony felt heartbroken at seeing his friends behind bars, wondering at the same time whether they were actually stupid or something. They would have known what it meant, to break international law like it was nothing, to completely disregard the olive branch that the govs were still intending to extend to them. Ignoring their slights and heavy-handed insults, he went straight to Sam, who he remembered as the most gracious of them, and got the information he wanted—at the cost of a little lie, even though he fully intended to be there as a _friend_.

That hope that things could still be fixed between the Avengers vanished the instant he threw the first punch.

Tony was hurt, among other things. Not like that time he got defenestrated, or his reactor was ripped out of his chest, or they almost drowned him and his murky idealism into even murkier waters. More like ' _how did it end like this without me noticing_ ', and ' _how do I begin to repair this_ '. He was, after all, the Mechanic. Tinkering, upgrading, fortifying was what he did best, and his brain was constantly in search for something to add to the pre-existing structure that were his creations.

This, though? Where was he even supposed to start? From Steve, of all people, harbouring a criminal with no better excuse than he was his friend?

… then his chest got smashed in.

He laid down on the ground, tasting copper and coconut, thought about Pepper, Rhodey, JARVIS, Harley, Peter. FRIDAY and his kids—bots. About his dreams of protecting Earth, the people, fighting the _battles that they never could_. About what he could still make, his nightmares, the terror in his veins, the urge to protect and mend and act. He exhaled a heavy breath.

And sat up again.

Actually, no, bad idea, his ribs were broken—better to get FRIDAY to send a distress call. Hopefully, somebody would answer it.

 

[][][][][][]

 

Tony was pinching his nose so hard it was a miracle it didn’t split under the pressure.

“Stark come on, this isn’t so hard to understand. We just had a report of an ‘ _alien-looking lighting strike_ ’ in New Mexico, and with the last encounter we made in such circumstances the first unit available was dispatched only to find—surprise!—our first ever alien terrorist laying there.”

Tony grit his teeth. “Yeah, I still don’t see what that has to do with me Contra, give me a break.”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s the fact that you’re the only _de facto_ Avenger left, while everyone else is either hiding back in Wakanda or MIA? Stark, be reasonable. We have him contained, but there’s no telling what-“

“Contained. _Sure_. Like last time when he dropped Point Break?”

If there ever was a time Fury had been close to exploding in his face, this was it. Divided by a simple metal table, sitting ramrod straight with impatience, the Director had spent the better half of the past hour trying to convince him to talk to Loki. Not that he had much resentment left towards the Trickster—he had given up on the majority of any hate-related emotion if they didn’t link back to the Rogues—but it was more like the principle of the thing: he wasn’t going to do jack shit of what Fury asked him to.

Especially in the name of the Avengers.

“I… paid him a visit,” the newly sombre tone made Tony focus once more on him, “we cuffed him, obviously, but the unit says he didn’t lash out even when they were in the open. I went in with him, after we were sure he wasn’t going to retaliate, to prod him back to life. There was _something_ …”

A pause, and damn. Fury sure knew how to keep a man on his toes. When he resumed speaking, Tony had propped his hands on the table in front of him in lieu of gripping something.

“He can’t use his magic now, not until somebody takes those things off of him, but somehow he managed to _freeze over_ the interior of his cell. No sparks, no wavy bullshit. The camera made it seem like the air solidified just like that, but Loki is kept in a fully functional, operating base, that has a heating system that works. But here’s the real reason why I want you to look at him,” another pause, and this time he leant forward, “we didn’t pick up any energy spikes from him. Technically, he didn’t _do_ anything besides glare at me with his freaky red eyes, but he has to have used something to-“

“So,” Tony cut him off again, feeling an edge of irritation creep up his tone, “you want me to, what, _study_ him? Make him into the next lab rat for you to vivisect?”

“No, Stark.” _That_ threw him off. “I want him to hand over that knowledge willingly to you, so _you_ can relay it to _us_. I’m sure you understand how difficult it would be to pry it from him the hard way, and I don’t want any more agents lost to him.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. When it did, the engineer saw _red_.

“You-“ he sputtered, rising from his chair in a heartbeat, “you want him to trust me. You want me to go to him and befriend him and- and then, then just _betray_ him? What?”

He couldn’t believe it. He literally couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After all that happened, Fury still thought he could waltz in and do whatever he damn pleased? Hell no. Asking him to follow an order like this showed just how much he had brushed off Siberia, and Tony wasn’t going to just stand there and take it. Even as his insides rattled with panic and nervous energy.

He was Tony _Fucking_ Stark.

There was a lot of sighing and shrugging going on in the Director’s side of the table, and the genius was liking this less and less the more the conversation went on.

“This is for everybody's good, Stark! Imagine being able to contain a mage like him, we could counter Amora _and_ Dr Doom at the same time! We could-“

“Are you _actually_ FUCKING _serious_ right now?” _Ow_ , volume check—he was shouting so hard his throat hurt, but it was of little consequence now. “Nicky, I swear I won’t tell anyone you’re high, because you must be to ask me to basically impersonate _Rogers_ —and expect me to ‘understand’ your reasoning behind it! With your main goal being, oh would you look at that, _experiment_ on another living being? What is this, HYDRA? PETA would sue, y’ know. Hell, _I_ would do it if I came to know that, what kind of stuff do people take these days?” Manic laughter bubbled out of him as he raked a hand through his hair. “This is- You know what, I should have expected you to try and use me for something like this, the good old ’ _no pain no gain, but only if it’s someone else’s_ ’, right?"

“We ain’t torturing him, Stark!”

“But I bet your pay-check you were going to. And, indulge me—how are you keeping him quote-unquote confined, apart from those family-friendly bracelets? By sheer force of will?”

Fury clenched his jaw with a twitch. “He is kept in a secure location, with adequate security measures.”

Eyebrows were lifted.

“Is this your roundabout way to say you don’t know what the hell is going on with your own prisoner?”

“I doubt I’d find anyone who cares enough to actually ask about him.”

“Isn’t this your lucky day then. Did you actually just leave him there? Do you know I was _kidding_?”

“ _Stark_. You realise there ain’t a soul on this planet that’d like to stay in a closed room with him for more than five seconds—he’s a terrorist for God’s sake! It’s a miracle I find people willing to interrogate him every other day!”

Tony was going to be sick. His stomach was actively fighting to get out through his throat and actually strangle Fury. Turns out, the Ten Rings weren’t the only ones that would go too far to obtain what they wanted, and if he was interpreting the spy’s words correctly Loki had been kept in isolation for an unspecified period of time, constantly observed. And while he may support incarceration and containment—he wasn’t absolutely certain about the god’s mental state, and last time he had been in Earth a crater his size had appeared in his penthouse—Tony couldn’t stand the thought of somebody else going through their own three months of Afghanistan. The very notion made him nauseous, and Loki had allegedly arrived weeks ago.

It was already _way too much_.

“Fine, ” he muttered gruffly, doing his best impression of a defeated man—while actually clenching his fists so hard his knuckles whited out. “I’ll go talk to him. Don’t expect much though, I haven’t forgiven him or anything.”

After staring for a minute or so, Fury seemed to accept his bullshit and nodded thoughtfully. Exiting the small room, Tony suddenly had the biggest urge to blow something up since Killian had been inside his suit.

 

[][][][][][]

 

“It’s _who_ , not _what_.”

As he held the trembling god in his arms, watching him come apart with just a few kind words—too few, not enough, what _happened_ to him—Tony thought they resembled one another way more than he’d imagined. That he’d suffered way more than him, and was still here, more or less standing, when Tony had been on the edge of breaking one too many times.

With promises that felt hollow even to him, he left the cell not looking back—afraid of not being able to move away if he did—dragging the door closed behind him. The engineer rested his back against the cold surface, the heavy thump-thump of his heart trying to dislodge his reactor in his ears—but even that was not enough to block out the broken sobs he could hear from the other side.

He vowed to _destroy_ everything that kept Loki from getting out of that fucking cell.

 

[][][][][][]

 

He slammed the door open with a blast, half his armour on and the other half working hard to catch up, making his way in with a snarl that was pretty terrifying, if the agents’ expressions were anything to go by. He hadn’t felt this _much_ since… well, ever. It seemed everything—a scorching rage, burning along with vengeance and pure spite—he had kept bottled up was pushing its way up his throat, moving to the rhythm of Loki’s desperate cries and heaving chest. The image of his eyes—big, watery, and searching for things so distant they might as well not have been there at all, but most importantly a deep emerald _green_ —was as if etched on his eyelids, and all he could see when he closed his eyes for even a second.

“ _FURY_!” He bellowed, waving his gauntlet in the Director’s face even as he had multiple agents coming at him. In the end he calmed down enough to tell him that Loki’s eye colour was completely different from the one from four years back, striking an uncanny resemblance to Barton’s when he had been brainwashed, and the state he was in was more or less the same as when he had stepped out of the Tesseract-generated portal—that is, at the end of his rope, lost, and exhausted beyond measure.

Fury asked for evidence, for an explanation for _whatever the hell you’re spouting, Stark_.

Tony delivered. Custom service just for one annoying son of a bitch, with added Powerpoint presentation just to answer any problems of accountability, as those seemed to pop out far more frequently as of late. Two guesses as to why that was.

At the end of the impromptu meeting, he had permission to get Loki out of there, albeit with a few conditions. But, if he were to be honest, the fact that the god could breathe fresh air and simply be taken care of mattered more to him than writing a few reports on his magic.

And those could always be faked.

 

[][][][][][]

 

If cursing were a sport, Tony would be golden medalist at the Olympics.

This was the sentence running through his mind as the elevator sped up, bringing him where his workshop was already lit up and waiting. Tony groaned loudly as he pressed his face into his hands, trying to get a grip on his embarrassment—he had thought that being touch-starved was something he could easily fix, but Loki had rejected any other help offered to him. That, and the fluke with his AI had left him completely shocked. Speaking of which…

He twirled around to glare menacingly at a sensor near the juncture between wall and ceiling.

“FRIDAY, override protocol ‘2U, Greetings’ and reset all inputs, save new file: ‘U2R, Welcome’ under the same directory—make that one a priority and apply ‘Hello, welcome to Stark Tower’ as standard protocol. Locate and override any other mention of ‘Avengers Tower’ and substitute with ’ _Stark Tower_ ’,” he said with a huff. “Is that good enough for you, or do you want the legal print?”

“Sorry, boss. I tried reminding you of my protocols, but-“

“No need, FRI.”

With a sigh, Tony scrubbed at his face. “It’s been... a long week, hasn’t it?”

More like a month, actually, but he tried not to think about that too much. He had literally just broken an ex-space criminal out of a SHIELD base, after a lot of time spent breathing down Fury’s neck threatening to break it—metaphorically, of course—and now said criminal was going to sleep in the room next to his.

Tony shook his head, uselessly attempting to clear it. No, he had made his choice and he knew it was the right one: no one deserved to suffer meaninglessly like he had been, especially when his circumstances were as vague as Loki’s. It had been a lucky shot, to manage to convince the Director that the god could have been, in fact, controlled much like the other agents, but it had sealed the deal.

Thus, now that Loki was here in his Tower, he could be supervised properly and tended to with appropriate care, like you would an actual _living being_.

... but that wasn’t all.

Tony had to admit the god had struck something deep within him, seeing his suffering and hearing just how much pain he carried with him, listening to him _cry_ because he had simply held his _hand_. The hurt in his cracking voice had almost made him tear up as well—hell, he probably had at some point, when the other’s frail, too thin body had slumped in his arms, but he honestly couldn’t bring himself to care about it. Loki hadn’t seemed capable of lying right then, for all his reputation as a master liar, and the all-too similar broken creature Tony had seen unravel in front of his eyes...

He had felt the uncontrollable urge to _protect_ him—he still did.

Even with all his reticence about talking to the god—stupid, stupid, fucking _stupid_ , he could have been there _faster_ —in the end, he realised he made the right choice. There was a lot he didn’t know about him, but he vowed to rectify that so could help as best he could. Aware as he was of Loki’s trust issues—they rivalled his own, it had been a constant one step forward, two steps back ever since that first time in the cell—the only good thing he actually could do was take care of him and wait for the mage to open up by himself, and if it meant waiting for months, well. He had signed up for this more than willingly.

Sighing once more, Tony set to write that damn report, plopping down in the nearest chair and tapping into one of his screens. ‘t was time to compile a document with enough bullshit to be utterly useless—kinda like those documents Pepper used to make him sign before he automatised the process by making an AI specifically for that.

 _Fun times_.

As the report basically wrote itself—“ _The subject blah blah shows minor signs of hostility, blah blah there have been no further developments, something about him being contained_ ”—the inventor rapidly directed his focus onto some of his latest works in progress, and started working at the new and improved Stark-phone model, which was supposed to work even when there was no signal thanks to the worldwide coverage of SI satellites. Not exactly his go-to when under duress, but it was work, and it managed to distract him enough that he had FRIDAY blasting music like he usually did, enough that he forgot about his situation for a little while.

It was at this stage that Tony usually lost track of his internal clock, and this time it was no different. That was why, as he mumbled along to ’Shoot to Thrill’, he failed to remember that he had a guest to take care of, and suffered a mini heart attack when he felt someone coming up behind him.

He spun around, soldering gun about to be raised up, when he caught the equally startled expression of one particularly edgy God of Mischief, and coughed out a laugh as he tried to still his racing heart. An absently waved hand cut off the music blaring in the background—Tony tried to give his voice the lightest inflection possible to defuse the tense silence left between them.

“Jeez, Bambi, give me a better heads-up next time… I have a _heart_ condition, y’ know, it’s not like I can survive many scares in my life,” he jokingly drawled. “By the way, did you need anything? Actually, how long has it been since the last time I saw you? I tend to forget myself when I’m holed up in here,” he finished sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head.

Loki just blinked at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i guess this was pretty much an obligatory chapter. although i didn't really want to do a recap, this was more of a fill in the gaps for everything that happened so far, but with tony because he's op and a badass and he deserves betTER.  
> anyways.  
> hope this cleared up some things, but i remind y'all of the unreliable narrator tag. and that this is fiction and higly headcanon-ed.  
> god this is going to be a mess.
> 
> thank you as well for the support, AGAIN. i swear, your comments actually make my day and more content possible! everything from criticism and just a simple greeting is appreciated - it makes writing this story easy and fun! and of course, if you have any questions, don't hold back :D


	5. Light You Up

He had indulged himself in his room, wandering into the wardrobe—empty but spacious and Loki had realised that, apart from the rags so graciously gifted by SHIELD, he now possessed little else. In fact, aside from his magic and the manacles, the mage was certain that he couldn’t be allowed to have anything else, not if the humans’ trust wasn’t restored first—and the chances of that happening were an absolute zero.

His magic… 

Loki sat heavily down on the soft bed, bouncing a few times before slumping under the sudden weight of the metal around his wrists. He tried distracting himself with futile information of a time past, but it only aggravated him further—there was no reason as for why he should seek refuge in a time when he was most despised, after all.

He resumed wandering in the quite large room, for lack of anything better to do. His thoughts weren’t helping him, conflicting as they were: Stark’s words rang true, no matter how many times he tried to assess them, further backed up by his sincere actions that had managed to impress even the Director himself, judging by the brief confrontation he had witnessed. The engineer had looked _livid_ , a hair’s width away from snapping and snapping someone’s neck as well, and Loki would be damned if that hadn’t changed his perspective of the man—especially considering why he was behaving like that in the first place. Thus, since there was apparently no other goal to his schemes, Loki found it harder and harder not to confide in him—even considering how against it he had been in the beginning, but that could easily be justified by the less than favourable ambience.

Most importantly of all, Loki had questions, especially about the absence of a certain group of meddling ants. And he expected that such an information exchange wouldn’t be freely given if both parties didn’t contribute as well—not that it was likely the man shared anything at all, the mage mused bitterly, knowing who he would be talking to. Still, he would try, as Stark didn’t seem the kind to lash out at a simple query.

Mind made, he exited his new quarters, that, as sterile as they were, appeared comfortable enough to compare to the grade of comfort Asgard provided, only to stop in the middle of the hall outside, as he didn’t have the slightest idea where to go once reached the elevator. As he hovered uneasily, the metal doors slid open at the same time as the female voice from before echoed around him:

“Mr Loki, would you like me to direct you to Boss’ workshop?”

Loki jumped a good foot into the air, his body going rigid with tension, before remembering Stark’s words about an… invisible assistant?

“… Yes, it would be appreciated,” he said hesitatingly, stepping warily inside the elevator and watching as a numberless button lit up in a circle of white light. “What exactly is your purpose here, Miss FRIDAY, if I may ask?”

A quiet hiss as it started moving, then, “I serve as Boss’ line of protection against any external inferences. Also, my job is to assure that he doesn’t accidentally starve himself to death and that he adopts a semi-regular schedule of self-maintenance.” A beat of silence. “I believe he was _drunk_ when he gave me the latter protocols, as he seldom respects them, to my eternal chagrin.”

That startled a snort out of him. The machine talked in a manner not unlike humans did, and while it was still disconcerting to hear a disembodied voice come from all around him, it certainly aided in making him feel like there wasn't someone inhabiting his head _again_.

The rest of his descent was spent in silence, but he didn’t feel the oppressive need to curl up into himself anymore.

When the door pinged open, Loki had expected to find a lot of wires, screens, perhaps a lot of sound, like whirring or beeping or something mechanical—nothing he hadn't seen before, both in SHIELD’s laboratories (when they had thought he wasn’t looking, the idiots) and aboard the flying monstrosity. Maybe, given Stark’s reputation, he had expected to find all that, but in much more quantity and quality.

He hadn’t expected his eardrums to be literally _shattered_ by the sheer intensity of the cacophony coming out of the immense room.

Loki had to make sure he wasn’t currently bleeding from anywhere, really, because he was sure this- this ruckus would have decimated a lesser man. And Stark was just standing there, thumbing away at a phone of all things, mumbling along to what must have been a song—Midgard really was the strangest Realm—one hand holding a strange contraption that was smoking, there were actual kid-sized automatons running about, whirling around and probably beeping, yes—but how could he hear them, when he barely could perceive his own thoughts?

Loki took several steps in the man’s direction, brows furrowed and intent on shaking him until he assessed whatever brain damage the other had to be suffering by now, when he remembered himself—he flinched, taking a step back and lowering his chained hands. What was he _thinking_ , raising his hands against Stark—as much as he felt like a young fool, in that moment even he knew that acting rashly could cost him much—no matter how doomed he already was.

Just as he was considering stalking back to his room—he could have stomped away, to burn some restless energy—Stark turned abruptly, raising the machine-clad hand with a rigid arm, a scowl on his face, fire burning in his eyes. He looked like a cornered predator, surprised in his own territory, but unwilling to just lay down and take it, already with a battle plan in mind—and all this simply from being ‘ambushed’ in his own workshop. The air literally shivered, and he was not sure if it had been caused by the deep thumping of the music’s rhythm or the sudden tension between them.

Loki froze, eyes wide, and stopped breathing.

Waited for the man’s inevitable rage.

And then Stark just… _melted_. 

In that moment, the mage could find no other way to describe the way his righteous fury left his body, tense muscles and rigid lines softening into a more amiable posture, brown eyes suddenly warm again—because they focused on _Loki's_ face, instead. The way his arm went to scratch the back of his neck, features morphing in an expression of pure sheepishness, a hint of colour gracing his cheeks—it all added to the illusion that this was a completely different man than the one that was about to flay him alive from five seconds ago.

Loki just blinked at him, noticing how Stark’s mouth curved upwards in an innocent grin as he talked. He wasn’t really… listening, per se, busy as he was staring at the other and trying to imagine where he could store all that rage, how he hid it so well behind a wall of gentleness, what made him tick. In the span of a few minutes, he had gone from pure homicidal intent to that same—dare he say—friendliness he had bestowed upon him on each of his visits, and the whiplash was threatening to make the mage go mad. 

Stark was absolutely mesmerising, intriguing, a puzzle too complicated to solve with brains alone, and whether the man knew his value or not Loki was sure he had yet to meet a man so _interesting-_

“Lokes? You with me?”

Snapping out of his wandering thoughts— _what was that?_ —Loki shook his head trying to hide the bout of embarrassment faintly colouring his cheeks, casting a hurried look to the forgotten screens behind Stark’s back.

“I came down here as per your invitation,” he managed to grit out in lieu of an answer, hoping that whatever the man had asked him wasn’t too far from it, “but if my presence here is not welcome, I will leave you to your… dubious choice of background noise.”

Stark gaped for a second, before bringing one hand to his chest as if clutching his heart. “Are you- are you criticising my beautiful, perfect tastes in _rock music_?” He exclaimed in mock offence. “I’ll have you know, mister, that what you heard just now is the culmination of an era and uh- the artist’s best representation of their… internal emotional conflict, or something!” He tried pointing a finger menacingly at the mage, but the way he stumbled over his own words nullified the effect.

“You clearly know less than I do on the argument, Stark,” Loki deadpanned.

“Hey! You being right doesn’t give you permission to just sass me like that, okay? And speaking of argument, let’s change it to something more interesting,” he muttered as he walked over to another table. Loki curiously followed him with his gaze, willing to drop the subject, and found himself gaping because-

“Is that a _light construct?_ ” He inquired, positively delighted, excitement propelling him two quick steps forward and pointing at the blue mass of seemingly pure light floating near Stark’s head, countenance slipping, as the man turned to look at him. “I was not aware Midgard could produce them, given your absolutely disastrous relationship with magic—although, being you, Stark, I may be inclined to be less incredulous than with most, given your predominant interest for the impossible— _Norns_ , how did you manage to replicate such an old art, I have only seen it among the Àlfar, those rare times they stopped being obnoxious and actually paid attention to the scriptures they are so fond of, _hilariously_ , they remain an ignorant species at their core even with all the knowledge bestowed upon them— _ah!_ ” A surprised exclamation left his lips as the blue glow moved from his previous spot, going to hover inches from his widening eyes, and then proceeded to change shape, into… an antlered animal of some sort.

Loki was ecstatic. 

Being able to be near any form of magic was not a luxury he could afford himself frequently, and as it had been a long time since he had been able to properly witness it without onlookers to spoil the moment—granted, this was not his usual construct, seeing as it seemed to originate from various sources all around him, but it was impressive nonetheless for being a human-derived product. He was so taken by it, he lifted his hands as if to touch it, completely forgetting about his restraints for a little while.

“Stark, what did you utilise… to…” seeing the expression on the mortal’s face made him trail off, voice dying in his throat—Stark was staring at him with the widest grin on his face, as he had just won the honour to visit Asgard’s Vault in battle. It was not unlike how Thor’s face would get whenever he would manage to sever a Bilgesnipe’s head with his hammer, and Loki found himself looking away once again, suddenly rather uncomfortable. “What is it?” he said lowly, hands grasping at his garments.

“… Nothing, just. It’s the first time I’ve seen you _smile_ since I met you.”

Loki went stock still, fists clenching at his sides—this careless behaviour was so very unlike him, he was beginning to feel concerned about any side-effects of magic deprivation. He was sure, after all these years, that he had learned the practice of self-restraint, but apparently, that was not the case at all. And maybe Stark wouldn’t fault him for it, but it made him feel extremely vulnerable and open, defenceless, as emotions weren’t something one expressed lightly, as he’s been so extensively taught—wishing he wouldn’t reflect on it further was the only way he knew wouldn’t result in further embarrassment.

So he stayed quiet.

“To answer your question,” the man’s bright voice cut through the awkward silence, making him glance once more to the construct, still fairly awed by it, “here on Earth, we call this a hologram. It’s not exactly magic—although, many would say so, normal technology can’t even think about approaching _my_ level—and basically, it’s a reflection of light, in my case highly concentrated lasers, that goes through various lenses and is projected,” he waved his hand around to the various tables strewn about the room, “from my worktables. It’s uh… actually not _that_ simple, but I’m laying it down in simple terms since I have no idea of your level of understanding of engineering?”

Loki found himself answering without further prompting. “I admit I am… _unfamiliar_ with many of your science’s terms.”

The slight furrow in Stark’s brow that had formed during his explanation was suddenly no more, and he snapped his fingers as he dashed away.  He walked quickly to one side of the room, fairly hidden by machinery and spare parts, and snuck around the back of what looked like a big metal arm, re-emerging after a few seconds later with something under his arm. The man marched right back to the mage, grin still in place, and handed him what seemed to be old tomes, looking singed in places but well-used.

“These are my old physics and engineering books— _man_ , it’s been a while since I last dug them out, I kept them around for…” he grimaced and went on, apparently unperturbed, “anyways, if you want to learn more about, y’ know, lowly Earth customs, this should probably be your go to. I imagine your brain needs a challenge as much as mine does every once in a while, so knock yourself out! You can have your own table if you want, and ask me things you don’t get- ah, that’s. I mean,” Stark looked flustered all of a sudden, and started to withdraw his hands almost reluctantly. “I don’t even know if it might interest you, I mean, it’s not like people just _start_ to learn this stuff, and I kind of flung it on you so, you don’t have to accept or anything—I thought it would be neat for you, you seemed interested in my hologram-thingie, and-“

“I have never in my life,” Loki interrupted, huffing a breath in exasperation, “been known for refusing knowledge, Stark. If you allowed it, learning your 'engineering’ would please me greatly.” 

(It might even distract Stark from asking more about him. He was also secretly overjoyed at the prospect of owning something other than his cuffs, but, if he were to be honest, the greatest pleasure would have been to have even a sliver of insight into the genius’s brain, to know just how it produced his many wondrous creations.)

He was rewarded for his words with another content smile, and subsequently guided to one of the nearest available working spaces. In a matter of minutes, they were both engaged in their respective activities: Stark was talking with the voice, FRIDAY, in subdued tones, as if not to disturb him, and Loki was deeply immersed in gathering all he could from the manuals. They spent a great deal of time like that, unknowingly, before a thought started nagging at the mage, until he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“Stark,” he blurted out of the blue, voice rough from disuse. He coughed lightly, to mask his nerves at the action and both to dispel the faint dryness of it, and only when a pair of brown eyes regarded him curiously he dared ask: “I- I have seen that your Tower is empty, despite what your servant called it before. I could not avoid noticing your... ' _teammates’_ absence and-“ his mouth promptly clicked shut when the inventor’s face darkened considerably. 

“Don’t,” was all he said on it as he turned back tinkering with his screens, and Loki knew better than pursue this line of questioning—he was legitimately surprised then, by Stark’s sigh as he pulled away from his work moments later and, running a hand through his messy hair with an air of deep frustration, started talking, dejectedly but quickly, as if muttering the words fast enough would physically get rid of them.

“It’s complicated. We- I guess you could say _I_ screwed up, as usual, and we had a falling out. There was a bit of a conflict going on for a while over some dumb laws, the fucking hypocrites wouldn’t accept that we kind of need those, so the team split because I existed, basically. And now they’ve scattered around, in _unknown locations_ ,” he said the last part with a hint of sarcasm in his tone, “and left the Tower permanently. I _hope_.”

The raw pain on his face told Loki that wasn’t exactly how things had developed, but whether Stark had omitted information or not didn’t particularly concern him—he was more preoccupied with feeling relief that the man wouldn’t hold his query against him. Thus he nodded, gratefully, and tried to get back to his books, but the bitter words he’d just heard actually managed to muddle his thoughts enough to distract him, and all he saw were numbers and letters jumbled together the more he stared at them.

Stark had been, essentially, abandoned. The notion swam around in his mind, and the more he reflected on it, the more how he had acted so far made sense: the way Stark seemed to instantly _understand_ , how he knew what to say without pushing, and his being highly observant—something Loki wouldn’t have attributed to his brash character—could have been the results to a drastic change in his life—specifically, whatever predicament the little heroes had gotten themselves into, and then, as Stark aptly put it, ’split'. Truthfully, he didn’t believe the rest of the Avengers had been right in their assessment to side on the opposite side of Stark’s—both for security and logical reason, as based on what he had said, the man had all the reasons to promote those ‘ _laws_ ’—but again, he didn’t have all the facts under his scrutiny to properly evaluate the situation and voice, metaphorically of course, his opinion. Still, something about the way the engineer had referred to the events irked him, making his features compose an irritated frown on his face.

Perhaps, he reflected looking at his manacles, it was the nagging thought that they were more _similar_ than he had expected.

… Well. It was clear that there was no more reading to be done today. Loki lifted his head to find the man already stretching and gesturing towards the exit, the screens powering off and lights starting to go out.

“How about we hit the kitchen, huh? I’m starving- and you haven’t eaten anything today, have you?” His words were met with silence, and he sighed. “Go figure. I’m not that great of a host, I told you. You might want to _hit_ me to actually dislodge me from there, if I’m locked in more than three days I might actually _kill myself_ out here.”

Loki’s lips twitched into a small smirk. “Somehow, I believe Miss FRIDAY would not allow that. Furthermore,” the words ran from his mouth, unbidden, as the elevator once more took them to the upper levels. “I could not possibly resent you for spending your time in a familiar environment. This _is_ part of you, it would be pointless to try.”

When his little speech was met only with the silent whirring of their ascent, he felt ashamed at his own apparent inability to check himself around the mortal, and turned to face him with a grimace, ready to be berated for his impudence—and found Stark looking at him, wide-eyed, with a thousand nameless emotions running through them, until they seemed to settle and his face reddened exponentially, as the genius blinked furiously and looked ahead and away, or apparently anywhere else that wasn’t Loki. He opened to mouth a few times, gaping like a fish, not a sound coming from them, and Loki seriously began to think he had broken the human, somehow. But then-

“ _Thank you,_ ” the man choked out in a breath.

And that was that. They spent the rest of the ride in almost comfortable quiet, until the doors pinged anew and Stark all but darted towards the counter, crouching behind it to access whatever sustenance he had available. Loki seated himself on one high stool, back straight, and entertained himself with scanning the open space around him with more ease than his first time.

“Here,” he was jostled out of his thoughts by the sharp sound of something sharp hitting a surface, and he looked back toward the man to find a glass full of the same amber liquid he had been faced with weeks ago right under his nose. Blinking, he glanced towards Stark, who waved his free hand—the other held another of the same fashion as his—encouragingly. “Finally, I can offer you that damn drink in a proper setting, with _proper_ tumblers. I actually felt bad serving my scotch into _plastic cups_ ,” he seemed to suppress a shiver, “so take it. Good stuff, as I said before.” He finished by literally nudging the small thing forward so that the mage had to grab it lest it spilt over his only article of clothing.

He glared at the glass suddenly in his hands, a scowl making his way onto his face almost immediately. Why was the man so _adamant_ in getting him to drink the amber liquid? Loki couldn’t think of many situations where he might enjoy getting inebriated, and surely another day into his captivity wasn’t one of them. He abhorred the practice, even when he had been dragged by the oaf and his dull companions into one of the many taverns in Asgard—perhaps especially then, given his deep dislike for the sharp smell and loud noise inside of those places. Besides, alcohol halted his magic-recovering process—something he couldn’t afford to lose at the moment.

“I… Thank you for your offer,” he set the crystal down on the counter, avoiding the other’s stare. “But I currently cannot partake in your consumption of drinks.”

“Why?” The man sounded confused. “You were the one that asked me to have one before.”

He had, that was true. But…

“That is why I said _currently_ , Stark. I’m sure, with your line of trade, that you are familiar with replenishing energy inside of a battery—my magic works in a similar manner, and it takes time to refill it—in this case, my own body—again. Drinking dampens the effect, thus I have to spend more time recuperating than usual when drunk.” Loki averted his gaze after finishing his piece, not wanting to explain things further—he had already exposed far more of himself than he would have liked, and he could only hope the other man hadn’t noticed-

“Hold on,” _damn it all,_ “Why do you even need to do that? You can’t use-“ a flinch as Stark registered his own words, "I mean, wouldn’t it take you a lot of effort to run out of magic? Unless…” the man levelled him a suspicious squint over the rim of his glass. “You didn’t _do_ anything, right? Before the whole prison cell thing went down—but I mean, you should’ve been fine by now at this point, yeah?” The _‘you had a lot of time on your own to do your thing’_ was tactfully left out, but obvious nonetheless.

Loki clenched and unclenched his fist under the counter, Stark oblivious to his internal struggle. He now had a choice to make, and his odds weren’t going to go up regardless of what he said—it was just a matter of pride, that one thing that had endangered him more than once, made him lose the level-headed calm that was so crucial in situations like these. 

Something in Stark’s face, though—the _concern_ deepening the signs of age around his eyes, it made him reconsider cursing his existence till the remainder of his days. The way he also acted—unabashedly worried and clearly wanting to do _something_ to help—made a tiny part inside the mage warm up, and wasn’t that another feat to appoint him. This man, who managed to constantly surprise him with his shrewdness, wasn’t certainly interested in being a conventional _'hero'_ , lumped together with the other sheep, and had just discarded his entire agency just for him…

Loki felt that warmth intensify into his chest, his resolve strengthening.

“You are correct, obviously,” he started with a soft sigh. “Normally, it would not take me more than two Midgardian hours to replenish my seiðr, it is a process that comes as naturally as breathing to me. But…”

He hesitated. Loki blamed the centuries spent hiding his weaknesses even from himself, as this shouldn’t be this hard to say, especially to someone like Stark who had no real means to turn the information against him, but here he was, hesitating, lost in his doubt and second-guessing everything.

So much so, in fact, that he almost jumped out of his skin when he felt a warm hand gently squeeze his shoulder—he hadn’t noticed Stark rounding the counter and settling himself beside him, and while that was perhaps a more than disconcerting thought, Loki, while still edging away a little from the surprise, couldn’t bring himself to be mad at the inventor who was looking at him with such _understanding_ , it was a challenge not to lean into him.

Loki jumped internally at this. Why would he want to reach out—to a Midgardian and his captor of all things! But, surely no one would judge if he were to take comfort in the simple gesture the man offered—or more like revel in it, given the genuine intent and warmth seeping through the thin cloth he was wearing. His thoughts were spinning in circles, and while the previous discomfort was all but gone, Loki was now left fidgeting in his own seat, torn between granting Stark some measure of permission— _invitation_ —to touch, or deny him outright access to what seemed to be his favourite way of giving comfort.

(Loki could totally see _why_.)

Stark seemed to take the squirming as a negative response, quickly retracting his hand, and the mage felt his tense shoulders relax minutely. He turned slightly to find the man glancing at him, trying to appear focused on his glass of scotch.

“Hey, you don’t have to give me an answer right _now_ —even though that’d be nice—I don’t wanna push you, alright? Just, take your-“ he promptly stopped what would have been the start of another ramble as Loki hurriedly lifted his palm, shooting him an annoyed glare.

_Oh, Norns. Fine, you meddlesome human._

Steeling himself, he took a deep breath as he rested his fidgety hands upon the countertop.

“As I said, you are right. Normally, these bothersome scraps would be nothing but mere hindrances, my strength enough to just brush them away, or I could let my seiðr do it instead. But now...” the weight of those manacles seemed worse, their hold tightened, but Loki knew he had to press on. “Now I cannot even muster the _energies_ necessary to analyse the environment around me—I cannot perceive life forms nor other approaching threats, and as used as I was to that it is almost as if I have lost one eye. They are quite literally sucking my magic out of me as soon as it reaches non-lethal levels, and you’ve seen how... I react to the process. Having my magic snuffed out... It’s as if I were missing a vital part of myself, and not using, not even feeling it means- it means it is slowly dying,” another deep breath, “and with it, I am as well. Although, the Fates have never shown sympathy in my sentences, so I am hardly surprised that it has come to this—in the end, I was always meant to die as miserable as I was born, wasn’t I,” he concluded sourly, not capable of hiding the bitterness in the not-quite question.

On his face, once again, bared for all to see, laid the eternal whirlwind of garbled emotions— _weaknesses_ —that Loki had always tried to hide, for better or for worse. If he were anywhere else, in another’s company, he might’ve recoiled at the mere prospect of showing it without any protection, any mask on—now, in that moment, with the only man to have ever showed him a _modicum_ of kindness, he wanted to know whether or not he would be flat-out rejected, ridiculed… or perhaps something else.

So he brusquely looked up, right into Stark’s warm, wide eyes.

And he stared right back, taking stock of all he could see, before muttering a single, disbelieving, enraged-

" _Motherfucker._ "

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOOOOH BOI this chapter would not stop. getting. longer! it's not drastically different from my usual word count, but damn there's so much stuff happening! and actual progress!! maybe this isn't as hopeless as we all thought!!!
> 
> so. stark is starting to get some context, probably the other shoe will drop in the next one (if they stop bantering and angsting for like five seconds) and yeah, loki might be in for some long-deserved fluff. bless that boi.  
> i don't anticipate myself posting before FFH comes out, so have a good time at the movies everyone. hopefully it won't be as painful as it seems, let's keep our hopes up... ;-;
> 
> alsothankyouforyoursupportAGAINlikeyouallarefreakingamazingily <3


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